Chapter 4
Corey leaned against the railing, the city lights stretching below them. Cameron stood beside him, arms loosely folded, her gaze tracing the distant skyline.
After a while, Corey tilted his head toward her. "So… are you going back this year?"
Cameron hesitated, biting her lip. "I… I don't know. Maybe. I'm not sure if I want to."
He nodded, fingers tapping lightly on the railing. "I get it. Totally your call."
A pause lingered, comfortable, until he added with a casual shrug, "But if you decide to go… I can come along. Keep you company, make the ride less miserable."
Cameron glanced at him, a small flicker of surprise crossing her face. "You'd really do that?"
"Sure," he said, grinning lightly. "Could be fun."
She let the thought settle, unsure, yet a small smile tugged at her lips.
Corey leaned against the railing, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, by the way, Katie asked if you'd want to fill in a shift tomorrow. Someone can't make it, and… well, you know how it goes."
Cameron raised an eyebrow, smiling faintly. "Tomorrow? Again?"
"Yeah," he said with a shrug. "You're kind of our go-to. Totally optional, but Katie figured you wouldn't mind."
Cameron shook her head, still smiling. "Too late for that.Looks like I'm a permanent fixture now."
Corey stretched, leaning back against the railing, the cool night air brushing his face. "Alright, I'm done for tonight. I'd better leave before your landlord starts charging me rent."
Cameron smirked, settling into her chair. "Finally admitting the balcony isn't your permanent office?"
"Exactly," he said, grinning."If I stay any longer, they'll start forwarding my mail here."
"Sure, sure," Cameron teased. "Don't have too much fun without me."
"No promises," Corey said with a shrug. "See you tomorrow—try not to burn the place down while I'm gone."
Cameron watched him head down the stairs, smiling. The night air felt lighter, their playful banter lingering long after he'd gone.
The next night, Cameron pushed open the bar's door, the familiar clink of glasses and low murmur of conversation greeting her. After a long day of sketches and indecision, stepping back into the lively space felt like slipping into a well-worn rhythm.
Katie looked up from behind the counter, grinning. "Cameron! Right on time. Try not to steal all my customers tonight, and keep an eye on Corey, will you? I'm still not sure he can handle it."
"Steal them? Please, I'm just making this place look good, plus I don't mind babysitting your brother," Cameron replied with a small smile.
Corey rolled his eyes dramatically. "Handle it? Please. I basically run this place while all you do is boss everyone around, Katie."
Katie smirked, tapping the counter. "Cute. Keep talking, lil bro. Just don't forget who's really in charge here."
Cameron leaned on the bar, chuckling. "Honestly, Corey, it's obvious. Katie runs this place. You just provide comic relief."
Corey groaned, but there was a reluctant grin on his face. The three shared a laugh, the bar warm with familiarity.
In a quiet back room on the same floor as the bar, Cameron moved with deliberate precision. The sketchbook and pencils were tucked away, replaced with a neat row of extensions, brushes, and palettes. Her hands worked quickly, almost on autopilot—clipping in the long, glossy strands that cascaded in polished waves.
Piece by piece, the reflection in the mirror shifted. Cameron disappeared, leaving Camielle in her place—poised, striking, and untouchable. Her lips were a sharp crimson, her eyes framed in dark allure, lashes long enough to veil every flicker of thought. She looked like someone who could walk into a room and never need to say a word.
The fitted black dress clung to her like it had been made for her, heels lengthening her silhouette with quiet authority. Each detail sealed the transformation, wrapping her in a version of herself that was impossible to reach.
With a final, steady look in the mirror, after a satisfied nod, she pushed the door open.
When she stepped back into the bar, the atmosphere barely wavered, though a few heads turned as they always did. Camielle gave Corey the faintest nod—polite, cool, nothing more—before moving past him as if she belonged behind the counter.
A regular perched at the far end of the bar grinned at her arrival. "Well, well. Thought we'd have to make do with Corey tonight," he teased, lifting his half-empty glass.
Camielle arched a brow, slipping into the role with practiced ease. "You poor thing. Surviving on Corey's service? You must be desperate." She reached for the bottle without asking, topping off his drink with a steady hand.
He chuckled. "You know me too well. No one makes it quite like you do."
Camielle smirked, sliding the glass back to him. "That's because I care. He just pretends."
The man laughed, shaking his head, and raised the fresh drink in salute. "To you, then."
Camielle only offered a small smile, already turning to the next waiting customer. She had slipped into her role seamlessly—untouchable, captivating, and entirely in control.
As the night deepened, the bar hummed with its usual rhythm—glasses clinking, laughter spilling across the room. Camielle noticed a man leaning too close to a waitress, his hand brushing her arm as she tried to step away. His grin was sloppy, his words low and slurred, before it got worse. Camielle immediately decided to intervene.
Camielle didn't waste time. Her heels cut decisively against the floor as she approached, her expression cold and controlled. She placed herself squarely between them, shoulders squared, gaze locked on the man.
"Alright, that's too far," she said, her tone even but sharp enough to cut. "Hands off the staff, and don't make anyone here uncomfortable. That's final."
The man blinked, startled, then let out a humorless laugh. "Careful," he slurred, jabbing a finger vaguely at her. "You don't know who you're messing with." His threat wavered, lacking any real weight.
Camielle didn't flinch. "Then walk yourself out before I make you."
Her unwavering stare pinned him in place until, muttering under his breath, he shoved his way toward the exit and disappeared into the night.
The waitress exhaled in relief. Camielle gave her a curt nod. "You're fine. Get back to work. And if anyone tries that again, I'll take care of it." From across the room, Reis watched the scene unfold, his gaze lingering longer than most.
After closing, Corey leaned on the counter, curiosity clear in his tone. "How'd you get that guy to back off so fast?" Camielle slipped out of her heels, setting them aside. "Calm voices carry further than shouting," she said evenly. "He realized pretty quickly he wasn't welcome.
The night had wound down into silence, the last chairs stacked, the last glasses polished, holding out her hand, "Best two out of three," Camielle declared.
Corey smirked, already rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for battle. "You're going down, princess."
They counted off in unison—"Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!"—and when Corey's scissors cut through her paper, his grin widened. Camielle groaned, tossing her hands in the air.
"Unbelievable. You cheated."
"You just can't handle greatness," Corey shot back, smug as ever.
With a dramatic sigh, Camielle grabbed the trash bag. "Fine. But if I get eaten by a rat out there, you're explaining it to Katie."
The alley was cool and damp, the hum of the bar muffled behind her. She hauled the bag to the dumpster, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet. As it landed with a thud, she caught movement in the corner of her eye.
A shiver ran down her spine
He stepped out of the shadows—the same creep from earlier. His smile was thin and mean. "Didn't think you'd get rid of me that easy."
Camielle froze for only a beat before her jaw set. "You're not wanted here. Walk away while you still can."
He laughed, low and slurred, and in two steps was on her. His hand clamped around her wrist, shoving her back against the brick wall, the rough scrape of stone biting her shoulders.
"Still got that sharp mouth," he sneered. "Let's see how long it lasts."
Camielle's eyes narrowed. Her free hand curled into a fist, her stance solid despite the cornered space. Calm, steady—calculating.
"Let go. Now," she said, voice flat, dangerous.
But his grip only tightened.
Her pulse didn't spike—this was nothing new. Just another night, another drunk fool thinking he could push her around. Same script, different face. His grip was tight, but not unbreakable. Alley corners, overflowing trash bags, a loose bottle at her feet—she mapped it all in seconds. Options lined themselves up like old dance steps: heel to his shin, elbow to his ribs, shove, and he'd stumble back. She almost sighed. It was getting predictable, this rodeo of entitled men who mistook her silence for weakness. Let him leer, let him posture—she knew the type. And like every other time, she'd prove him wrong. Calm, sharp, ready. The night was still hers… though it wasn't over yet.